Fanfics of 'Cousins'
by PutMoneyInThyPurse
Summary: A collection of missing scenes, epilogues, what-ifs and different POV's of 'Our Right Trusty and Right Well-Beloved Cousins', a wonderful fanfic here on FFN.
1. Comforty Epilogue

"This is embarrassing."

"What, getting your nuts fried?"

"You are not helping, you know."

An observer into the Royal Guest Suites of King Abdel-Salam bin Al Yapheth of Khadra might, if he had a bird's eye view and a very long zoom lens, have been able to see Kelly Robinson, honored guest of the King, sitting on the very edge of the couch, knees wide apart, bandaged hands awkwardly at his sides, as his partner Alexander Scott, also honored guest of the King, knelt between his legs. Said hypothetical observer might think the position was compromising, but it was, in point of fact, perfectly innocent.

"Careful," admonished Kelly, feeling nervous. "Careful."

Scotty huffed in exasperation. "I have not _touched _you yet!"

"No, but you're _going_ to!"

"I am putting on ointment, not performing open-heart surgery."

"Says you."

"Ah, I had forgotten."

"What had you forgotten?"

"That the little head means more to you than the big one."

"Give you a big head when I get these bandages off. Give you a fat lip."

"Now that is no way to talk to the man who holds in his hand your family jewels."

"I knew it! I knew it! The man is threatening me. And I'll thank you to take your hands off me."

"They are not _on _you yet, really, I…" Scotty fell silent as he pulled Kelly's bandaging off and he saw the full extent of the burns for the first time.

Kelly shifted uneasily. "I'm getting old, here."

But Scotty had to pause. Sweet Jesus… Kelly had always made light of it, like it was no big deal, when the male nurses had changed his bandages, and Scotty had looked away so as not to embarrass him. It wasn't like he hadn't known what the voltage had done to Kelly, from the screams and from the shattered, shaking body he'd treated for shock and trauma after the torture. But he'd never looked at the burns, and now his insides turned cold as he saw the damage. White and scabbed like skin cancer, layers of dried skin were peeling off to reveal purple hollows of charred flesh, networks of destroyed blood vessels and damaged capillaries branching out around the sites and turning Kelly's testicles, his penis and inner thighs mottled blue and purple. Good Lord, how did the man deal with the pain, never mind sit and stand and walk around? He must be in agony the whole… Scotty squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them, as though to erase what he was seeing. 'I think I may play the violin again,' Kelly had said, that's right, make a funny, make a joke, Kel, what else was there to do in a miserable situation, but make a…

"…all right," Kelly was murmuring, and he'd clearly been doing so for some time. "Hey. Hey, Stanley, it's all right, no harm done."

"No harm done…" Scotty muttered furiously, and blinked hard. Cool, Kel wanted to play it cool. Not much to do but oblige him. He reached out and gingerly, fearfully applied the ointment to the shocking burns.

"Ah—" Kelly flinched, pain flaring through him at even that gentle touch. He could still remember _the alligator clips as they clamp onto his tenderest flesh, the current running through him, killing him every time_— He clenched his fists and the pain in his hands reminded him, _battery acid, all over the floor, the dungeon, the desperate urgency to destroy the horrible device, can't let it be done to Scotty, not to Scotty—_

"…lly?"

"Yeah!" He blinked. It felt like it wasn't the first time Scotty'd called his name. "Present," he muttered.

"Hey, Jack." Warm brown eyes were looking into his, his partner's face close to his, too understanding and too, too sad as Scotty crouched up to face him. "All done."

Kelly just looked at Scotty, feeling lost. After a moment of that gentle gaze, Scotty moved across Kelly's field of vision to sit on the mattress next to him, and placed an arm round his shoulders.

Scotty's hiss of breath as he raised his sore arm snapped Kelly out of his trance. "Shouldn't be doin' that," he muttered, "and anyway, isn't it time for your medicine?"

Scotty's fingers found Kelly's shoulder and held on for a moment, until his battered arm and shoulder muscles gave out and his arm flopped back down. "Well, if it ain't, it oughta be," he muttered, fatigue plain in his voice.

"That is the most correctest thing I have ever heard you say, Professor." Kelly found the strength for a grin as he eased up off the bed, walking bowlegged to the closet. After a second, he modified his walk to a Charlie Chaplin shuffle. "Think I'll make it in the movies?"

"Only if you put a paper bag over your head."

The reply was flat, by rote, and Kelly risked a glance back; yup, Scotty's face was as tight and pained as his voice, staring at him like Kelly was some kinda victim. Like Scotty hadn't been – Kelly's skin crawled – beaten real bad, worse than _he_ had gotten by far. There was little doubt who'd sustained the most damage. Not that it was any kinda competition.

Using the tips of his fingers, all that poked out from within the bandages, Kelly liberated a couple of pills and snagged the salve. "You really know how to wound a guy," he whined as he returned and held them out.

"Indeedy do," Scotty muttered as he accepted the pills and painfully raised an arm to take them, "I have a higher degree in that skill."

"From the University of Hard Knocks?"

"One and the same." Scotty closed his eyes. "We both gotta scholarship to there, didn't we."

"Aren't we the lucky ones." With an effort, Kelly forced the bitterness out of his tone. "Hokay, Mr. Higher Degree." He settled beside Scotty on the bed. "Let us see about some of these marks."

"Full marks."

Kelly lightly smoothed the cream over the tramline welts on Scotty's shoulders, double lines of tight, precise swelling surrounding a livid white line. "Hm?"

"You said…" Scotty's voice was unsteady and Kelly gentled his touch even more, trying to control the clumsy, bandaged paddles that were his hands. "Marks. I said, full marks."

Kelly frowned, fingers moving softly over a particularly vicious welt, bisecting the skin and bordered by blossoming bruising all over the surrounding area. He'd sworn once he'd kill anyone who ever did that to Scotty, and the list was fucking growing. "Pardon me, sir, but you appear to have lost me, somewhere along the primrose path that is…" The lightbulb went on suddenly. _"Marks_. You mean _grades."_

"Well," the deep voice took on a fake-British accent, "for those of you who have not been educated in the Mother Country, old chap…"

"Why would anyone call grades _marks?"_

"Why would anyone call marks _grades?"_

"Because they are _grad_uated."

"No, indeed they are _marked."_

"You get _marked," _Scotty said self-righteously.

"You get _graded."_

"You get marked."

Kelly's hand slowed in its ministrations, his voice taking on a darker timbre despite himself. "That, you surely did."

''No worse'n you."

"That is a matter of opinion."

Kelly's tone was light, but Scotty could tell his state of mind from the sudden tenderness in his touch. He opened his mouth to say they'd both been lucky, or something of the sort. Instead, he found he'd blurted, "You were screaming."

The gentle hand stilled, then resumed. "You _weren't." _Pitch-dark now. "I—You had me chewin' on my nails, wondering if you were even still alive."

There was no answer to that.

"Do you think…" Kelly's voice was hesitant, even as his hands were sure. "…you could just let loose and holler next time, Fred C? Save me havin' a heart attack?"

"Nope. Can't do that, Hoby." Even he was surprised at how flat and hard it came out. "Can't do it."

Kelly finished his back, the combination of the salve and the pills making it hurt a lot less already. He reached for the gauze, and began to wind it around Scotty's torso.

Scotty stared down as the white bandage was wrapped around his stomach, overlapping in layers, covering up the cuts and welts on his back. Kelly kept working, slow, careful, meticulous. He didn't look up once.

"You wanna hear about it?" Scotty heard himself saying.

Scotty drew in a breath; his mouth was running ahead of his brain today. He didn't know what had gotten into him. Only he did; one day long ago, Kelly'd had his heart broken by some dame, and he'd made Scotty the same offer. "You wanna hear about it?" he'd asked, and Scotty had shot back, "You wanna talk about it?" Kelly had said No, whereupon Scotty, like any good friend, though consumed with curiosity, had said, "Then I don't wanna hear about it." Not that there was any similarity between the two situations; losing the woman you'd wanted to marry was a lot more serious than some childhood discipline gotten a little too rigorous. He wondered if Kel would give him the same reprieve.

"I don't," Kelly said.

"Don't…?" Scotty blinked, looking at Kelly's open face. He kinda had the notion that Kel had been waiting for him to come out of his reverie for some time. What the heck was wrong with him, anyway?

But Kel wasn't done. "No, I don't wanna hear about it. I don't even wanna imagine anything even remotely similar ever happening. I wanna forget I ever heard it, I wanna just go into my head and scrub that knowledge out." He dropped the bandage, kneading at his eyes. "But I can't do that, man. I can't unhear it and I can't unlearn it, and – hell, whatever you want. You know anything you want is fine by me, Scotty." Kelly took up the end of the bandage again, fingertips tenderly smoothing it along the deep cut on Scotty's chest, winding it carefully under his arm and around his back again. "You wanna talk, that's cool. You wanna pretend I never heard a thing…" and there was the agent's tone, hard, discreet… "I never heard a thing."

They were silent for a long time, Kelly finishing up Scotty's back, angling the gauze to wrap the welts on his shoulders. Scotty saw him flinch as he bound up a particularly deep cut. Finally it was done, and Kelly gathered up his supplies, walked bow-legged to the chest of drawers. _I heard you screaming._ Those horrible burns on Kelly's testicles… And those poor hands of his, scorched with battery acid. To protect him, Scotty, from the same fate, and then Kel said Scotty'd got it worse than him.

"If…" He choked it back once it was out, but mercifully, Kelly stayed still as a statue, back to him, fiddling with the contents of the top drawer. Scotty took a deep breath. He couldn't do this. He could not. Every man had his limits, right? Of course, right.

After enough time had passed that it became evident he wasn't going to finish that thought, Kelly turned away from the dresser. "Lie down on your side for a while?" He seemed to take Scotty's lack of an answer as an affirmative, and as Kelly eased him down to the couch with those damaged hands, piled pillows underneath his head, and draped a bedspread over him, it was only the uncharacteristically soft and gentle movements that betrayed Kel's emotion.

Scotty turned his face inwards, facing the back of the couch. Kel adjusted the cover over him accordingly. "Guess we could both use a nap, huh?"

"Got that right," Scotty answered gratefully. The painkillers were already starting to make him feel a little loopy.

"Good night in the daytime, then?"

The bed made little noises as Kelly settled into the mattress. Scotty didn't have to look to imagine him lying with legs spread, doing all he could to spare his burns. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again and said doggedly, "I tried not to think about it."

Kelly's response was immediate, voice shifting as he moved around in bed. "You don't gotta talk about it on my account, man. You…"

"Shut up," Scotty said mildly, and girded his loins. "We… You gotta… It's not like… You try not to let your mother know about, about somethin' like that. She knew a little, not… Mom never… It ain't that she never _knew,_ it's…"

Kelly's breathing was soft and constant, but he'd apparently taken Scotty's injunction seriously, and never said a word.

"Back then, you know," Scotty began again, "I mean, now – you got the, the sexual revolution and Women's Lib, and divorce… Back then, it was a scandal. You just didn't leave your – your family. In those days." He swallowed. "You made your bed, you lay in it."

Kelly was silent, patient. Maybe he'd fallen asleep. That was good.

"You…" It was more comfortable talking in second person, so he went with it. "You made it worse if you… cried. Or made a noise." He paused. "Or, or maybe, it… the thing's kinda, if you're gonna be a crybaby I'll punish your kid brother instead, teach you a lesson, so you can hear how a real…" He found he had to swallow. "How a real baby cries."

Kelly's breathing hitched, but, bless him, he didn't say a thing. "And…" It was hard to find words, but some kinda sense of duty propelled him on. "And – if your mom is out, and you don't make a noise, then nobody hears, and she don't find out when she comes home, from the, uh, the neighbors."

He could hear everything Kelly wasn't saying. "Pretty thin apartment walls. And, and then, see, on the times when…" He backtracked. "Not a neighbor in his right mind wanna mess with a neighbor who's six-foot-five, big Marine, tell him how to raise his own kids." Where was he? "You know how the cops are about domestic affairs. And, if she don't know about it, she don't fight with him over it, and then you don't gotta see her being…"

He swallowed hard at that. He'd not thought about it for years, knew he was over it, but for some mysterious reason, it was stirring things up to recall it all over again. He clamped his eyes tight shut, trying not to see a worm's-eye view of a hulking brute throwing _her_ against the wall, see her swinging a vase at him, being easily overpowered—he'd broken her arm, that time… He'd sent Russ over to the neighbors', and he'd gone, and when Alexander had tried to intervene, he'd been knocked unconscious. His head had hurt less than seeing his Mom in a sling, knowing he hadn't been able to protect her. After that, he'd always been careful to stay out of the way of a punishment until she was out…

Kelly was still silent, and for a heart-stopping moment, Scotty thought he'd walked out. _Don't be a dimbulb,_ he admonished himself; _no shame in it, he told you that…_ But maybe he'd wanted to see if Kel would still be here when he told the whole story. He was so tired of being ashamed, so tired of half-truths and smokescreens, so tired of it. Bad enough on the job, but with Kel…

Maybe it was too much for Kel to handle. Maybe—He jumped at the feel of Kel's hand on his forehead.

"Just checking for fever," Kelly said smoothly. The best agent, his partner; better than the best. The gentle touch lingered a little longer than necessary, Kel's forefinger and thumb parting the roots of Scotty's hair. He slowly removed his hand, letting it caress softly down the side of Scotty's face, finishing with a brisk, gentle pat to his cheek. "Think we oughta take in some liquid refreshment like the doctor said, don't you?" Kelly's brightness was a little forced, but welcome for all that. "What say you to some hot chocolate, or you prefer iced tea or somethin' like that?"

"Hmm." Scotty reveled in the touch of Kel's hand, now resting lightly on his elbow. "I think I might partake, but after I have awoken."

"I shall await your pleasure, then."

_Don't you always? _Scotty closed his eyes, feeling the warmth and contentment steal over him as Kelly made a production out of adjusting the covers around him, fluffing his pillows, and generally making him feel like the King of the Casbah. "Do that, peon," he muttered, smiling.

"Just for that," Kelly ruffled his hair, "I won't take you with me to meet the pretty Khadran girls tonight."

"I thought you was gonna await my pleasure."

"Pleasure waits for no man."

"Or woman."

"You've lost me."

The pleasantly bemused sound of Kel's voice as he tries to backtrack through the layers of their banter was probably put on for Scotty's benefit, but it made him laugh for all that. "I could never do that, Hoby," he muttered as sleep claimed him. "No way nohow."

He knew Kelly had heard him. But then, he always did.


	2. Secrets

Kelly knows that secrets are their business, and so it doesn't particularly bother him that there's something Scotty's not telling him.

He didn't notice it at first. But you can't spend twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, in close proximity with a guy, eating, sleeping, bathing, undressing, and sharing a beach towel, and not see things. Like scars.

It's not that great big scar just below Scotty's collarbone; he knows how that one came about. It's the other ones, the ones he doubts that Scotty even knows are there. But when they've been swimming, and Scotty flops down on his stomach in the brilliant sunlight, the water trickles off his back in a particular pattern of lines, the same pattern every single time; if a good spy waits patiently until the water dries, and looks carefully, there's the faintest change in the texture of the skin, only just visible to the naked eye in the right light at very close quarters, showing countless places where the skin has healed, in long, practically invisible stripes. If his partner should happen to roll off the beach towel, the fine yellow sand sticks to his skin in even swathes, betraying the slightest unevenness where deep welts have healed. And, on Scotty's side, there's the strangest indentation, so faint he thought he imagined it the first time it caught his eye, until he saw it again: a square frame with slightly rounded edges, with a spike running through the middle. Like a brand, or something.

The evidence is unmistakable: Scotty, too, has been on missions before they met. Like almost every other recruit, he probably did one or two runs before the Academy, a covert ops mission here and there. Only some SOB or other got the drop on him and tortured him. Whipped him, probably. Kelly swallows at the thought of that happening to Scotty, but he can't blame his partner for never talking about it. Hey, if it was Kelly, he'd want to forget it too.

Ergo, the story about being recruited straight out of college is clearly a cover. Which isn't surprising, really: Kelly worked as an agent for a while before they decided to formalize it, and God knows there are missions before Scotty that Kelly doesn't really want his partner to know about. And he'd die before he'd let this particular pure-hearted cat find out about the weight that lies on Kelly's soul, the weight of sending Remo Torazzi to his death. Remo, and others.

So, least said, soonest mended and all that jazz. Except, he hopes that one day – with or without Scotty's knowledge – he'll find out just who that SOB is who put those marks on his partner. Kelly flexes his hands unconsciously. He looks forward to that day.


	3. Missing Scene

AN: This missing scene was engineered to slot into the space between the lines "To tell him when he can't tell himself, you see, that he's made it" and "Kelly's hands worked their way down Scotty's left calf, massaging the ankle...", occurring simultaneously with the scene where Queen Nejmet learns of the success of the plot. I thought, let's stay with the fellas and see how Kelly comforts Scotty. *sigh*

* * *

Gentle, almost shy brown eyes rose to his, a flash of wonderment in the glance that flitted up, then dropped, daring to form the ghost of a fleeting smile.

Kelly was seized by the overwhelming desire to pull the man into a strong embrace and reassure him with all his strength that there was no-one worthier of admiration than Alexander Scott. But sanity immediately prevailed. _Oh, nice going, Robinson_. _The Mountain beat him half to death, and you're fixing to finish the job. Kill him with kindness, why don't you?_

Instead, he smiled lovingly down at the battered, swollen face, ignoring the pang it caused him to see Scotty suffering, instead reaching out with his forefinger to wipe away a trickle of blood from one of the oozing welts on Scotty's cheek. "Have you ever known me to be in error, Fred C?"

Scotty drew a shaky breath, head lolling back exhaustedly in the crook of Kelly's arm, the slash carved from ear to collarbone welling afresh and soaking into Scotty's own shirt, the one he'd put on Kelly. "Does you then… not mistakes mistakes like mere mortals?"

"Not where you're concerned," the honest words tumbled out before Kelly could stop them, and he scrambled for something to say to cover, "however dumb I may be about everything else, I can recognize an exceptional man when I know one." That hadn't come out casual enough, but the way Scotty's breath caught told him it hadn't been a total disaster. He deliberately made his smile light. "Unless you mean to impugn me as a judge of character…"

"Impugn?"

"Impugn. Which would wound me deeply, man, and you know how I get when I'm insulted."

"Ah, how does you gets?"

"I gets whiny, and peevish, and I might even start bawling."

"Can't have that," Scotty smiled up at him, and it was genuine and true. He made an effort to sit up, Kelly trying to help him without aggravating the pain of his welts, feeling the heat rising from the raw flesh, wondering at the will that kept Scotty silent, knowing he would be a whimpering wreck if that had been done to him.

The last shreds of Scotty's ruined undershirt fell away, revealing a blackening bruise on Scotty's stomach, and Kelly suddenly wanted to assess the damage. "Time for a visit to your friendly family doctor," he said briskly. He was about to instruct Scotty to lie down, but the thought of that whipped, bare skin touching the concrete floor changed his mind in a hurry. "C'mere." He carefully brought his arm around from where it had been supporting his partner, rose to one knee, and reached out to grip Scotty's hands firmly.

With the synchronization of long practice, they eased Scotty up to a kneeling position, Kelly supporting most of his weight as he held his breath and trembled at the pull on tortured muscles. The minute he was up, Kelly glimpsed the bleeding from the back of the dark head, the close-cropped hair revealing the alarming swelling on the skull. He leaned close to assess the injury, covering his concern with a light "_Now_ look what you did, Alexander!"

Scotty flinched, just barely.

Kelly's insides roiled as he realized the reason, inwardly repeating what he'd said. The kind of statement a parent would make to a child… just before beating the living crap out of him. Perhaps… _had _ made.

There was nothing to be done, no taking it back, and Scotty had already smoothed everything out of his face, and there were worse things Kelly could do than exorcise that demon. "Really, Stanley," he pattered on, shifting one of Scotty's hands to grip his forearm, freeing one of his own to touch the lumps at the back of his friend's skull, fingers probing with exceeding gentleness, "I can't leave you alone for one single solitary minute before you antagonize some psycho. I told you to play _nice_ with your little friends, young Alexander! The Mountain is the _soul_ of courtesy, and just look what you made him do! You've got me going bananas. You're going to drive me into an early grave. Just, just _look _at all this grey hair!"

"Not my fault you're goin' grey." Head bent, Scotty smiled sidelong at Kelly, long and slow and warm. "You can always use Miracle Dye." His expression grew serious. "How you feelin', man?"

"Better than you," Kelly said dismissively. "Listen, I don't like the looks of your head."

"I did not think you would stoop so low as to insult me at a time like this."

"I would insult you at any time, sir, day or night. Or afternoon." Kelly glanced over at the ancient spigot set into the wall with its inch-wide drain, dismissed long ago as affording no possibilities for escape. It might be useful now. "Can you help me get yourself over to that corner?"

"Is this any time for a bath?"

"I want to get that swelling down," said Kelly seriously. "If we're gonna fight, we need you alert."

He knew that would get Scotty moving, and it did. Too fast, of course, and he let out an involuntary hiss, and swayed as he rose to his feet. Kelly leapt up to support him, and swayed himself under a wave of vertigo. "Keen," he muttered as he and Scotty gripped each other's forearms, leaning on each other. "As secret agents, we're great cripples. Ready for the old folks' home."

Scotty's eyes took in their awkward position. "London Bridge is falling down."

"My fair lady."

"Speak for yourself, Thelma."

Kelly straightened slowly – the pain was irrelevant, the dizziness receding. "Allow me."

Scotty leaned heavily on him as they inched forward. "My mother always told me not to trust handsome men who offered a helping hand."

"Well, you got nothing to worry about then, do you?"

"Don't worry, when we get out of here we can get you a nice steak for that shiner."

Kelly glanced sidelong at Scotty, suppressing the chill of fear he'd been trying to control ever since he'd seen the damage to his partner's eye. "You and me both."

"No argument there."

They arrived at the spigot, Kelly taking Scotty's hands and helping him kneel. "Keep your legs away from the water. It won't help to be cold and damp later." He turned on the tap. "You know what to do," he said matter-of-factly.

"Aw, do I hafta?" Scotty mock-whined, leaning forward.

Kelly was already reaching for his hands again, knowing that what was coming would hurt. Scotty shut up entirely, breathing in sharply as he bent to place his head beneath the tap, and Kelly felt more of his partner's weight shift onto his supporting arm, Scotty's grip growing shaky as the act of bending pulled excruciatingly on torn skin and muscle. But then he was bent all the way over, the worst of it past. Kelly helped him place his palms flat on the floor so that he was on all fours, Scotty's head squarely under the flow of water. He let out an appreciative sigh as the cold water flowed over his bleeding scalp, soaking into his hair. "Your resort facilities are excellent, but your entertainment leaves something to be desired, my good man."

"Yeah, well, could you entertain your head over a little to the side, let the water get to that eye, huh?"

Scotty turned his head obediently. "I shall entertain the thought."

Kelly knelt above him, cupping a palm in the water and directing the flow to the areas that looked the most swollen and tender. "Hold that pose for a while." He glanced at Scotty's blood-covered torso, frustrated that he couldn't assess the damage better. "Dobbsie," he ventured. "I'm gonna try and clean some of this red paint off you, all right?"

"Every Roman Emperor wants a body slave," Scotty sighed, the relief in his voice clear at the coolness on his aching head.

"Right." Kelly wadded up the shredded undershirt and soaked it in cold water, then spread it gently over the surface of Scotty's back, careful not to rub or chafe the heated skin, merely letting the wet cloth ease the burning pain and absorb some of the blood.

Scotty shuddered as the cool fabric made contact, then relaxed. "Ahhhh. I has no complaints about the service."

"That is good," riposted Kelly, cupping fresh water in his hands and letting it splash down to refresh the makeshift compress, "because I'm about ready to set this-here table. Got me a dandy tablecloth. All I need's the silverware."

"Now really," shot back Scotty, looking through the flow of water at him, and Kelly felt a fervent ripple of relief to see the white of his damaged eye; it was still red, but not solid scarlet as it had been. "I will not settle for anything less than platinum, sir."

"Ah, but for that, you need your meals prepared on a golden stove." Kelly lifted the cloth, wrung it out and then lightly patted the mingled blood and water off Scotty's back, clamping down on his fierce outrage. _It won't help. _He rinsed out the shirt again, then crouched low to bathe the wounds on Scotty's chest and stomach, squeezing the cloth so that the cool water could provide some relief. He flinched along with Scotty at the touch – "Sorry, man" – but soon enough his partner's flinches turned to little sighs of relief as the coolness soothed the places where the belt had landed.

As the water flowed over Scotty's head, Kelly kept up his ministrations, dampening the cloth and applying it tenderly everywhere Scotty had been struck – back, chest, stomach, arms, shoulders – unable to help wishing with all his heart that it had been him, that the body scored with welts and racked with pain was his own. He hated to see Scotty hurt, always had. He knew it was a weakness, but he'd pretty much given up on being strong about this. Charles Atlas he wasn't – seeing Scotty marked was bad enough, but then he thought of everything his partner had been through, everything he had found out that he shouldn't, and he had to close his eyes against a debilitating shudder._ Just goes to show how weak you are, Robinson. He doesn't want your pity. _

Too late. Scotty had seen him shivering, and cut his eyes at him. "Cold in here," Kelly covered hastily.

_Ah, dammit. _He groaned inwardly – the distraction had been _too_ good. Scotty rose up out of the water worriedly. "Still feelin' cold?"

"No," snapped Kelly. "Getting hot, as a matter of fact." With that, he stripped off Scotty's borrowed shirt in a flash and wrapped it round his partner's waist, tucking it into his waistband to keep the water from soaking the canvas jeans. He pulled the whole mess down so that it wasn't touching any of the welts still glistening with water – he hoped the coolness had eased Scotty's pain somewhat, because it was all they had at present – and knotted the sleeves to keep the makeshift towel in place. Then he flipped it up to dry Scotty's arms and hands, all the way up to the shoulders, carefully avoiding the sore spots. "Now siddown somewhere dry so I can check your legs out, because I don't know about you, man, but I'm about ready to make like a cheap paint job and flake off."

Scotty accepted Kelly's help rising, but he stared at him so hard that Kelly grew uncomfortable. Instead of an answering quip about a holiday camp, or the smell, he merely said worriedly, "You sure you're not too cold?"

Instead of exasperation, Kelly made his own face look worried. "Why? You too cold?"

"No," Scotty answered as Kelly helped him to a sitting position on the concrete floor, "I thought you were…"

"Who's on first," Kelly grinned as he bent, cautiously palpating the thigh muscles, then moving on to the calves. A couple of lumps here and there. They'd hurt, but nothing like the savaged skin and muscle of Scotty's chest and back.

"What's on second," Scotty said automatically. "So what's the prognosis, Doctor?"


	4. Dance Me To The End

AN: Kelly's POV of the scene where Scotty comforts him after being tortured by Alaaeddin.

* * *

After the pain is over, there's this, the one thing he can always count on. He can barely remember his own name, but he knows he shan't be abandoned to suffer alone.

They toss him to the floor, and all he knows is infirmity and pain. He hasn't talked, but it's a hollow victory—he just wants to curl up and die.

Anchor. Lifeline. Words. His mind. His friend. The voice, his lifeline as he screamed. Perhaps living is worthwhile, after all.

A warm body cradles him, catches what they've left of him. He's lifted up off the ground, lifted out of himself, out of the residual pain that leaves his body and spirit in tatters. Tender hands hold him and gentle him through the aftershocks. Like a child the arms rock him, like a child they comfort him. Weak and trembling in the wake of his agony, he tries to hold fast to his anchor, only to find that his nerveless fingers can't even close. But it's all right, because his limp body's already been gathered into a firm embrace, lending him warmth and strength and life.

He drifts, suspended in the warm support, only vaguely noticing as those skilled fingers work his nerve centers, as his partner's hands soothe and heal and take away the pain, the cold, the numbness. The touch restores him, makes him feel as though he could one day be human again. Ah, that sly magician and his techniques learned from the Far East! He's too weak to smile, but he leans on his Houdini, his head resting on the supporting shoulder as his partner pulls a rabbit out of the hat, Kelly's bone and muscle and nerve and sinew gradually absorbing vitality and vigor from Scotty's body: his haven, his home.

To his surprise, he finds that he can move, move his fingers. He can hardly move his head, yet his arms have mobility. Marshalling all his strength, he brings his hands up to the back of the beloved head, fingering the disturbingly large lump there. He murmurs something he hopes is funny. It's all they have to get through this, especially now it's Scotty's turn.

He doesn't want it to be Scotty's turn. He doesn't want his safe haven to be violated, he doesn't want to leave his human cradle, he doesn't want the most perfect person in his world to be damaged—he doesn't want anyone to touch a hair on Scotty's head. But he realizes, as he lies in the warm, comforting cocoon of his arms, kept off the cold floor by the man's own legs, that it must be so.

He knows this, and yet he would willingly give himself over to those men again if it would only mean he could keep Scotty safe.


End file.
